


Hopeless Opus

by sunnyfreeze



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Ballerina!Natasha, Fluff, Gen, doctor!Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24782251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyfreeze/pseuds/sunnyfreeze
Summary: Clint Barton attends the ballet and ends up in the hospital. As one does.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 69





	Hopeless Opus

**Author's Note:**

> Based loosely on a real injury that happened to @HazelHayes

“I just don’t understand why you want me to third wheel your date with Steve.” Clint tugs on the bowtie that Nat just tightened for him. Nat notices and rolls her eyes at him.

“It’s not third-wheeling because one: it’s not a date. Steve is in love with Bucky.”

“He can be in love with his best friend and still be dating you,” Clint says helpfully.

“Two:” she speaks over him, leaning over to put on her heels, “this is a work-related recon mission.”

“Yeah, I still don’t understand why they gave you three tickets instead of two.”

“Because, three: I want to show my favorite disaster blonds why I’m moving back to the city and that it’s not,” she emphasizes, “not to watch their puppies for them. I asked for an extra ticket, and I got it.” Her pointed look shifts into a grin. “That’s how bad they want me.”

“That’s how bad Steve wants you,” Clint mumbles.

Nat ignores him. “Steve should be here any second. Stop touching it.” She swats his hands away from the tie. “I’m not retying it again.”

“See, pickup. More proof that it’s a date.”

“He’s picking us both up because I’m staying at your place. Which is further proof that we’re not dating, or I’d stay at his place.” Her phone lights up. “He’s here.”

“Touché. Or… maybe not. Because he obviously wouldn’t bring you home when the love of his life is still sleeping in the guest room, love still unconfessed…”

Nat closes her eyes and sighs. “Just lock the door, Hawkeye. And stick to physical targets. You’re way off base.”

“Ma’am yes ma’am! Bye, Luck!”

Lucky barks goodbye and the lock clicks into place. 

_____

There’s something about being in a theatre that sits in Clint’s blood and makes it feel like its glowing. It has been like that as far as he can remember, as far back as his circus days. Any kind of theatre will do—auditorium, big top tent, stadium. And this is likely the nicest theatre Clint has ever been inside.

When they are arrive, they get the VIP treatment, are personally guided to their seats, and are given vouchers for two free drinks each. Clint claims the one that they all know Steve won’t use, but he misses the opportunity to use them as the show is starting.

Now, being best friends with Natasha, Clint has seen many ballets over the years. He still doesn’t know anything technical about ballet, but he knows the difference between a good one and a bad one, and this is a dang good one. The stage, the costumes, and of course, the dancing. The lead is the closest Clint has ever seen to being as good as Nat. This isn’t some rinky-dink company who needs Nat to even dream of filling the theatre. This place is legit. They clearly recognize talent and cultivate it. Clint grins as the lead (but not for long) ballerina twirls and twirls. This is why Nat wanted him to come. It’s not a pipe dream, it’s not because she’s just worried about him or Steve (who, to be fair, probably both deserve some level of worry). His best friend really is moving back into town. Not out of obligation, but because she wants to.

As they wait in the intermission line for their free pun-tastic ballet cocktails, Nat tells them more about the ballet company. She and Steve both mock Clint for double fisting his drink, but he ignores them. Nat is moving back and Clint is gonna celebrate.

The drinks are good, but they don’t really help Clint understand what is happening onstage. He can appreciate the skill and art of a good ballet, but, despite its beauty, he still can’t quite decipher how the wordless music and movement translate into plot. 

After the show, Clint gets Steve’s drink and the three of them are invited backstage.

As they pass the lead’s dressing room, Clint leans over towards Nat, “That’s gonna be your room.”

“Hush, Barton. I’m still negotiating.”

Steve winks at Clint. “I’ll pray for them.”

Clint grins in agreement.

“And this,” announces their tour guide, “is the stage.” The four of them step out into the bright lights and Clint’s blood-glowing feeling increases. The house lights are on, but that doesn’t stop the sense memories from his own performances from washing over Clint.

“Oh, I could make this work for me,” Clint says.

“Yeah?” Steve asks. “Where’d you put the targets?”

"Well, one at the front of the balcony, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“And I’m thinking a couple moving ones over here.” As they discuss the set up for the Amazing Hawkeye, some bigwig from the ballet comes to chat with and sweet talk Nat even more. “I’d leave this area clear for acrobatics—”

“Really? I thought you’d keep it just to archery.”

“Nah, not on a stage like this. There’s so much room to bounce around. You saw those ballerinas. Plus, I can mix it up for some trick shots. I was a professional gymnast/acrobat, you know, Rogers.”

Nat steps away from her conversation. “Keyword is ‘was,’ Barton.”

“Whatever, Nat. I’m in top shape.”

Steve gets that glint in his eye, the kind that usually ends with Bucky punching him. “I mean, are you though? What’s the most you do now, sit and point? Yell?”

“Fork you, Cap. I’m an athlete.” And Clint steps into a back flip. “Ta da! My body is an instrument, and I am its master.” He flips forward and again sticks the landing. “For I am the Amazing Hawkeye. Clint is the name—” he flips twice. And flops. “Aw, ankle, no.”

Steve’s eyes widen and he hurriedly leans over Clint. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, Steve-o. Right as rain. Help me up?”

“Sure.” He allows Clint to grab his arms and pulls him up. As soon as Clint puts his right foot down, however, he crumples again.

“Whoops.”

“Um, Nat?” Steve calls, stabilizing Clint and interrupting her conversation with the ballet bigwig. 

She looks over, already rolling her eyes. “Break your ankle, Hawkeye?”

“Yup.” Clint grins sheepishly.

“No less than you deserve.”

He grins bigger and she sighs.

The bigwig, however, looks Steve-level worried. “Wait, you just broke your ankle? Right now?”

Clint shrugs. “Think so.”

“I’m so sorry for goading you, Clint,” Steve says, adjusting his grip on the Professional Gymnast/Acrobat.

“I’ll call the team doctor! She’s probably still here post-performance!” Bigwig disappears backstage.

“No worries, man,” Clint pats Steve’s head. “S’not your fault. I got carried away. But at least Nat’ll get to meet her future doc now, right?” 

_____

Sometime later finds Nat, Steve, and Clint at the nearby hospital, waiting for the doctor to come back and cast Clint’s leg. After the ballerina doc appeared and confirmed the break, they headed to the hospital which ran official x-rays and confirmed the break for itself.

Clint’s doctor is a mild-mannered seeming man named Dr. Coulson, who barely blinks when this grown man in a deep plum suit shows up with a broken ankle and explains that actually, Clint did not break his ankle, but the two bones in his lower leg.

“Whoops.”

“I’ll be back with some casting material. Do you want to request a color? I don’t usually ask adults, but—”

“Purple!”

The doc gestures at Clint’s suit. “Thought so. I’ll be right back.”

He leaves, and Clint notices behind him that Bucky has appeared. As has a bag of McDonalds. 

Bucky dumps the bag on Steve’s lap and strides over to Clint and Nat, who had stayed close to also listen to the doctor. “Hey, man.”

Clint blinks at his friend. “Hey, man? That’s what you say to me when you just— Did you seriously just bring Steve food and bring nothing for me, your injured buddy?”

“And Nat,” she says, leaving and grabbing a burger from the bag.

“Sorry, Barton, they texted that they were hungry.” Bucky shrugs.

“Oh, sure, and I’m never hungry.”

Bucky is smirking a little now, a smile that likely only the three people here would ever notice. “I don’t know, maybe you can’t eat for medical reasons.”

“Can’t eat? I’m texting Kate. Hand me my phone. Kate loves me, Kate will bring me food.”

“Don’t text Kate,” Nat warns.

“Clint, chill. He’s messing with you.” Steve lobs a burger over to Clint. “There’s a heap of fries in here with your name on them.”

“I’m serous, Clint. She’s going to kill you after she finds out. Give yourself a day or two to chill first.” Nat hands Clint the bag of fries. He’s pretty much already done with the burger.

Dr. Coulson returns as Bucky is laughing at Clint’s inability to locate and wipe the ketchup off his face. “Sorry to interrupt, but I am going to need you all to leave, so I can set and cast Mr. Barton’s leg. It shouldn’t be too long.” Clint’s friends nod and file out.

Once they are out of the room, Dr. Coulson starts silently prepping Clint’s leg for the cast. Clint munches on his fries.

“…Dr. Coulson?”

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you gonna make small talk or something?”

The doctor looks up. His expression betrays no emotion, but Clint somehow feels like he’s amused. “Do you want me to?”

“I mean, do I want to make small talk? No. But is it the lesser of two evils? Probably. Because I really don’t like silence, so if we’re not making small talk, I’m just gonna—”

To Clint’s relief, Coulson interrupts. “What were you doing when you got injured? I don’t often see people with this kind of injury come in wearing suits.”

Clint considers that. “Oh, yeah, that makes sense. We were at the ballet,” he says, stuffing some fries into his mouth. 

“You broke your leg watching the ballet?”

Clint shakes his head and makes the universal pantomime for ‘gimme a sec to swallow this food before I answer.’ “No, we were invited backstage and then onstage because my friend Nat is… it’s a whole thing. But I couldn’t resist the stage. I used to be a gymnast/acrobat, and I only ever dreamed of performing on a stage like that.”

Coulson takes that information in with only a slight coming together of his eyebrows showing that his attention was both on Clint’s words and the wrapping on his leg. “How long ago did you used to be a gymnast?”

“Um,” Clint waves around a fry, “like ten years give or take. Why?”

Coulson looks up and looks him straight in the eye. “It is my professional opinion that you stop doing whatever move caused this injury.”

“Wha—hey! I’m a professional. I was an Olympian!”

“An Olympic gymnast?” Coulson eyes Clint’s sprawling, lanky body.

“Okay, no, an Olympic archer. But a professional gymnast before that.”

“Ten years ago.”

“…The Olympics was more recent…”

Coulson looks up again, face placid yet somehow still smirking at Clint. “You don’t have to take my advice.”

Clint grumbles, “No, I’ll take it. But for the record, before I got hurt I totally landed a back layout and a full twist.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” The dry sass is a good look on the doctor. “What do you do now that you’re no longer a gymnast?” He returns his focus to Clint’s cast.

“Still an archer. Run an archery gym down off Sunset and Byrd, coach some kiddos, training my mentee to surpass me in every way.”

“Must not be too hard. How’s this feel?” Coulson does something to Clint’s leg that he wouldn’t have noticed at all.

“Ouch, doc. Uh, the burn, not my leg,” Clint clarifies. “Leg is either totally numb or totally snug.”

“Alright, well hopefully this doesn’t affect your coaching or archery too much,” Coulson says, fiddling with the cast for another few seconds before standing up.

“Nah, I never miss.”

Coulson raises an eyebrow. “Lot of confidence for a professional gymnast/archer in a purple cast.”

Clint chuckles, “When you know you got it.” He reaches for his fries and finds the box empty. “Aw, fries, no.”

Coulson is typing away at the computer in the corner. “You’ll need to stay here for about 15 more minutes, until the cast is dry, and then you should be free to go, as long as you don’t feel any new pain or numbness. If you do, just get the nurse and let me know. Other than that, you’ll just need to sign some documents at the front reception and schedule your tentative appointment to remove it, presuming everything goes well. Sound good?”

“Yeah, great. Uh, are you still technically my doctor after this, or do I get a new one next time, to get my cast off?”

Coulson looks up from the screen, his face somehow even more blank than neutral expression he’d maintained for most of their interaction. “Usually the original doctor who sees a patient will see the injury through until it is fully healed, unless that doctor becomes unavailable or the patient requests a new doctor. Why? Would you like to request a new doctor?”

“Oh, no! No, definitely not! I was just curious.”

“It’s no problem if you do want to. You don’t have to give us a reason for the request either, if you don’t want to.”

Clint winces. “No, nope. I—the opposite, probably, of what you’re thinking. I just. Was curious if you’d be my doctor next time, is all.”

Coulson’s expression is less blank and more skeptical now.

“No, for real, I—ugh,” Clint scratches his nose and grimaces. “Okay. I asked because I was gonna ask you out—but only once you’re not my doctor! I don’t want to be out here, harassing people at work, plus I figure you’re not allowed to say yes while I’m your patient, even if you want to. So.” He grins weakly. “It’s the opposite of me not thinking you’re a good doctor.” He holds his hands up as if to nonverbally say, ‘ta da.’

Coulson blinks. He stands up and nods to himself. “Let’s discuss again when your cast is off.”

“Wait, really?” Clint shakes off his shock. “It’s because I’m an Olympian, right?” Clint grins, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Coulson stops in the doorway, looking back, amusement tugging at his lips, “It doesn’t hurt.”

_____

Phil has just finished changing out of his scrubs when his phone rings. “Hello?”

“Hey, Phil...” It’s Clint. “Just calling to let you know I’m downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Phil frowns. “I thought we were meeting at the restaurant?”

“Oh, yeah, totally, we were. But then it turns out I had to visit one of your colleagues, a Dr. Banner?”

Phil puts his hand over his eyes and leans against a locker. “Clint! What did you do now?”

“Nothing! In my defense, babe, I do not control when my appendix ruptures. But I do think I have to get off the phone now because Dr. Banner is glaring at me.”

Phil can’t keep the small smile off his face. “Alright. I’ll be there when you get out of surgery.”

“Thanks, babe. Love you!”

“Love you too.” Phil hangs up and mutters affectionately to himself, “Hopeless idiot.”


End file.
